Slow down, Speed up, Make sense
by Flame Rainbow
Summary: Sherlock returns to old habits when everything becomes too much and reveals how he feels sometimes, John helps him through it. Rated T for drug use.


John was lost in the bliss of unconsciousness; he was enjoying a dreamless sleep and was free from the heat, bullets and blood that usually plagued him. He was pulled to reality by a shrill ringing on his left side. He groggily opened his eyes and tried to escape the too warm cocoon of his blankets. The irritating ringing was pulling him further and further away from his dream land. He felt around his bedside table for his phone and glanced at the name, when Sherlock flashed up he turned and groaned into his pillow.

He looked at the clock and groaned again when he saw the time was three in the morning. Sherlock probably wanted him to get a cup of tea or something else pointless that he would refuse to do but then end up doing anyway.

"Huwo" Johns voice was laced with sleep, and he stumbled over the one simple word. He blinked hard in an attempt to wake up.

"John, I'm… I'm grey and colourful at the same time" Sherlock's slurred voice came through the phone.

"What? What's the matter," John focuses, pulling himself out of sleep, "are...are you drunk?"

"No, well... yes, no. Like drunk but so much better and worse" Downstairs Sherlock's eyelids were slowly closing and his eyes rolled to the back of his head before pulling himself up sharply. The high would be going soon, that splendid feeling he always craved.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John said, pulled out of sleep sharply, "What's happened?"

"I was bored, so bored. The voices wouldn't stop. The kept on talking, speaking. I couldn't hear anything except them and it was so loud. Everything was so LOUD. So I just went back to old solutions to my age old problem" Sherlock's eyes were changing quickly from sharp and penetrating to scared to sleepy.

"Where...where are you?" John said quietly, "Are you downstairs?"

"Downstairs... Downstairs... Downstairs. YES... Downstairs, Isn't that an interesting word. Down THE stairs" His voice was varying in tone and volume and by the end he was shouting. John could hear Sherlock shouting, without holding his ear to the phone. "I'm coming downstairs, okay?" He pulled the covers aside and started padding along the corridor towards to the stairs.

When he walked into the room Sherlock was pacing around the sitting room with no regard for furniture. His hand alternated by gesturing wildly to pulling at his hair. He was muttering quietly then would be shouting. His Skin was pale and only looked paler under the blackness of his rumpled shirt.

"Sherlock," John murmured softly, approaching Sherlock slowly, "Sherlock what did you take?"

Sherlock spun around to face john and his face lighted up like he hadn't seen John in weeks, or just talked to him on the phone. Sherlock quickly pulled up his sleeve and showed him his fresh puncture marks, a sick smile on his face. He then started talking at the speed of lightning.

"Well at first I wanted to slow down, but then I wanted to speed up, but then I didn't. Nothing made sense and I wanted it to make sense again. It was like bees in brain. That's ridiculous bees in brains. I wanted to see and notice everything. I can now. Everything's so sharp and clear. It's so good; I could solve so many cases. Mycroft wouldn't be proud but who cares what the fat git thinks.

I tried to have some tea but it wasn't strong enough. I needed stronger. Seven percent Stronger. At first I thought maybe morphine but then it might end up like last time when Mycroft found me. I was so stupid. I had taken too much. Morphine would make me sadder. Is it possible to be sadder than I was? I don't think so John. Maybe I would have died. Cocaine John. Oh the wonders, I can see everything and feel everything. But why is everything so sad. It so colourful but so grey. I don't normally feel things like this; it's like they're locked up tight. Why John? I feel like I'm dying but I'm not because I'm so alive but inside I'm so cold and empty and I'm screaming to get out. Why am I so lonely all the time?"

"Oh Sherlock," John said sadly, approaching Sherlock and longing to hold him in his arms, "talk to me. You don't need to be lonely. You...you have me. I will make you some tea; try and help you make sense."

"But I don't have you John, because you will leave someday and be happy, so happy. And I will stay here and watch you happy and married. You will get angry, so angry at me and you will leave like everybody. Like father, or maybe your pretending to like me. Maybe you don't even care. Sometimes John when it's really quiet and you're at work and I have no cases and I'm so bored and my head is screaming and it's so loud. Why is it so loud? If I died would anyone care? I don't think they would John. It's all my fault. I'm the freak, I should be normal. What's wrong with me John?"

"Nothing." John said simply. "There is nothing wrong with you. You...I could never leave you behind, Sherlock. You have taken up every space in my brain, every word, movement, heartbeat is you. I can try, Sherlock, to make the voices quiet, but you..." he choked a little, trying to cope with the influx of information about Sherlock, "You are not a freak. And you make me happy."

"Maybe now, but I kill everything. Nothing around me stays happy. Everything burns and burns and dies. Why do you care John, why? Why would you possibly care about me? What could I have to offer you? If I was dead you could be happy, the world would be better. I'm a stain, a germ. I'm evil, like father said. He asked me one day who could possibly love me. I honestly don't know" He said all of this with the genuine curiosity of a broken man, a man with no hope.

"I love you, you foolish man," John choked out, eyes sharp and stinging, "I adore you. You cut me open, burn me up inside, steal everything about me and I still love you. I don't give a shit what your father said, because he's wrong. He always has been." John took a couple of steps forward, voice lowering threatening to crack, "All I want to do...is to hold you."

"You love me?" Sherlock tilted his head. "I don't know what love is. I want you around all the time. I would die for you without thinking twice. I would give everything to you and ask for nothing in return. I want you to be with me forever and ever and ever. But I don't know what love is, is that it John?"

"It can be," John smiled, gently placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, "If you want it to be. I feel that too, just...just let me help you." He pulled Sherlock closer to him, wanting to hold him close. "I want to give you everything, Sherlock. Just promise to stay, not like this."

"I don't know if I can do it John, I might slip up and you might get angry, so angry. You might want to scream and shout and leave and go far, far away."

"No," John interrupted, "No, I won't. I will get angry, we will fight, but we'll already do. But I will never leave, unless you tell me to."

"I would never tell you to go, never. I'm tired John, I'm just so tired. How can I be this tired? It feels like it's in my bones. It's chipping away at me" Sherlock hung his head as he felt the high dissolving. He was slowly getting his head back and realising how much he had let out but he felt as if he couldn't stop. But it was more than that. He didn't want to.

"Let me hold you, Sherlock," John murmured, so very close to him now, "You don't have to be this tired, come lie down."

A lone tear escaped down Sherlock's face and he choked up a bit as John came closer to him. He opened his arms a bit and in that moment, despite the crippling sadness gripping his soul, despite the remnants of the drug coursing through his veins he felt that maybe everything could be okay, just for a moment. If John held him. He stepped forward to John until he could feel his breath ghosting over him.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hands stroking down his back soothingly, "I'm here. I'm here, Sherlock." John could feel tears prickling behind his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, choking him in his desperation to make Sherlock understand how much he cared. "I love you, Sherlock. Please don't do this anymore."

"I'm sorry John, so sorry. I... I..." Sherlock swallowed. He was scared that if he said those words that John would rip out what was left of his heart and crumbles it until he wasn't even a man. Just an empty vessel. Just flesh and blood and bone. He would become the things he experimented on. Bits and pieces of a person that use to be whole. But he sucked it up and used his exhaustion as an excuse of admitting things he had denied long ago. Through the tears clouding his eyes he pulled back Johns head and looked him in the eyes. "I think love you John Watson".

"I know," John smiled, pulling Sherlock to him, "I know you foolish man. I can tell from the way you speak to me, the way you look at me, the way you let me hold you." John pulled back and held onto Sherlock's hand, "Come lie down with me, come and sleep."

A smile from Sherlock was rare, most of the time it was when he was acting but with John he felt he could let go a bit. The smile he gave John was the saddest in the world, it was a smile plagued with nightmare and darkness and an urge to hide everything he was. But this was John, his John that smiled back and pulled him into his room.

John tucked Sherlock into his own bed, "Lie down." He curled in next to him, chest to back, holding Sherlock close to him, rocking him gently.

Sherlock pressed closer against John and his heat, he suddenly felt so cold. He was happy but the drug left him feeling empty, like he would float away if his John didn't hold him. And he was cold. So very cold. "John" His voice raised in fear "John, I'm really cold"

"I'll hold you," John murmured, "I'm here, I'm warm." John held Sherlock as close as he could, stroking his arms and legs. He hushed Sherlock, soothed him, stroked him, warmed him, all the time murmuring how much he loved him, how much he needed him, how much he wanted him back. Sherlock could feel the very last of the drugs in his system and was trying to hold onto it. He didn't want to go back and slow down.

"I'm scared, I'm so scared. What if I come back and I can't take it. What if my head can't take it because sometimes is so loud John, so loud. I can't breathe or speak and it's so LOUD and I'm so cold."

"I'm here, Sherlock," John murmured, "You will cope, I will help you cope, I will do anything for you. Anything you ask me to. Just, hush, I'm here..."

Sherlock let all of his tears go, everything he had held back the drug had let out. He was sobbing into John. He thought about his life, his father and mummy and Mycroft. The bullies and the torment and Uni, and the drugs the drugs the drugs, and Baker Street and John, and John, and John, and John, and John, and John. And he sobbed for everything and anything. And he could hear his father voice and Johns voice and they blurring into one but he concentrated on John's warmth and he was shaking. He was shaking so much.

John held him as he shook, soothing him, murmuring to him about everything. "Sleep, Sherlock. You should sleep. I've got you." He stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair, ran his handsover his shoulders, and stroked his fingers across Sherlock's forehead, his calloused fingers brushing his tears away again and again. He pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's head, "Sleep, sleep."

"What if my monsters get me in my sleep" He knew he sounded like a child but he wasn't talking about mythical creatures. He was talking about what he knew was inside of him, those dark creatures that lurk in his soul.

"Then I'll be here, to fight them off," John assured him, lips against Sherlock's head, arms around him. Safe. Close.

"Thank you, Thank you John" He squirms around so he can face John fully faces him. He leans against John, Forehead against forehead, and nose against nose. He looked John straight in the eye. Those deep blue eyes that held you, made you feel safe.

"You don't need to thank me," John murmured, smiling softly, hand gentle and close, "I would do anything for you"

Sherlock reached up and cupped Johns face, felt the warmth that made him so human. So real. Sherlock was not okay right now, but he had his John Watson. The John Watson that made him_ live_ not just survive.

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**A/N Rate and Review please (use the nice little box below this teeny message) **


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